


Demonstrated Loyalty

by Fisticuffs



Category: Teen Titans, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Set during the Apprentice Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fisticuffs/pseuds/Fisticuffs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slade is an opportunist. To let Robin's blackmail bought loyalty pass him by would be a waste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demonstrated Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic where Slade takes advantage of the very unique hold he has over Robin during the Apprentice arc. I mean, he can literally make Robin do whatever he says. That’s hot.
> 
> This takes place at the end of The Apprentice pt. 2, right before the other Titans bust in, and then just completely ignoring the fact that they do.

Robin's scalp felt raw where Slade had grabbed him by the hair and slammed him against the floor. The rough hands where gone, but he felt their presence still, as well as perhaps the absence of a few hairs now torn from his head.

He pulled himself up onto his knees, gasping hard from his failed fight.

"If the Titans are so distracting," Slade said, his back arrogantly turned and expecting no further attacks, "maybe I should just get rid of them." He raised his arm with the control pad, the kill switch, and Robin's rage left him, replaced by fear and desperation.

"Don't," he pleaded, a kicked and defeated word. "I'll do whatever you say." He lowered his head in obedient surrender.

Slade's masked face twisted to look at him with intrigue. "Good boy," he praised, turning fully to face him. "And," he said, "from now on I'd like you to call me Master." Robin continued to look at the floor, despising this new rule of shame. "Do you understand?" Slade asked, his voice a deep rolling sound that worshiped and mocked in equal shares. Robin nodded his head with the barest of effort. "Tell me you do."

Robin faltered momentarily but complied. "I understand."

Heavy boots with a metal sole beat upon the hard floor as Slade advanced, slowly and casually. "I don't think you do," he criticized. "Try again."

"I understand," Robin repeated, though that time he hesitantly added, "Master."

"Good," the man stated with approval. He approached until he stood only a foot in front of Robin, then he looked him up and down with a scrutinizing eye. His gaze was diminished by one but had regained its strength in other ways. Robin felt his clothes as futile technicalities, his skin as a thin wall that did nothing to keep out the eye of the man before him, the eye that seemed to see his soul laid bare and vulnerable. "Come," Slade said, and he walked past Robin, assuming he would follow without further command.

"Where?" Robin asked, his body twisting, his feet following.

"To test the strength of your obedience."

"I won't hurt my friends again," the boy said, though he continued to follow behind the other, pace unwavering.

"You'll do as I say," Slade told him. Then his voice sounded ever so slightly reassuring as he said, "Though this won't involve your friends." That statement relieved Robin as much as it put him on edge.

Slade opened a door and held his arm out, signaling for Robin to enter the darkened room. He paused for only a second before complying.

Little could be discerned in the room, even less when Slade closed the heavy door. But then he flipped a heavy breaker switch and the lights flickered reluctantly to life. Robin had wondered before where Slade retreated after he had shown Robin the room that would be his. It seemed now that this was Slade's room, sparse— as his own had been— and small, nothing more than a technicality of the clock tower.

"What do you want?" Robin demanded.

Slade put his hand to the small of Robin's back and gave him a little push towards the bed in the room. "Lay down."

"I'm not tired," he bit back petulantly.

"I didn't ask if you were."

Robin stood where he was, but his resolve weakened quickly as he thought of his friends. He approached the bed and sat on its edge before throwing his legs over and lying down.

"Good boy," Slade told him. The man himself pulled a wooden chair from the corner with a light screech and positioned it at the foot of the bed. Then he sat down, watching Robin closely. "Now," he ordered calmly, "I want you to take off your clothes."

Robin sat up and sneered. "No way."

Slade said nothing. He only gave the button on his wrist a little nod. Robin stared at him in a futile stalemate. The man would always win, but to fight him felt so good.

The metal clasp of his boots were the first thing to go, followed by his utility belt, and then his thin sheets of armor. Slade watched, silent and intent. Robin removed his shirt and finally his pants, taking his boxers with them in one motion and pretending the act didn't bother him.

"The mask stays," he growled.

"Of course," Slade permitted. He watched Robin unreservedly and showed no sign of movement, as though his plan stopped there and he had no desire past simply gazing at the teen in his bed.

After many long moments of silence and observance, Slade stood. He walked to a drawer from which he took a plain, nondescript bottle. It was thrown to Robin without warning, but his reflexes assisted him in catching it anyway.

"What's this?" he asked, looking the bottle over for any identifying markers.

Slade sat back in his seat, watchful and unanswering for a long while. "I want you to put it on your fingers," he told him simply. "And then give me a show."

Robin looked back and forth between the masked man and the bottle in his hand. Then he threw it across the room. "Fat chance."

"'I'll do whatever you say,'" Slade said, quoting him. "Isn't that what you told me?"

"Not this," he argued, putting his foot down.

"Yes, this."

Robin stared at him, chin held high and pride firmly in place, even with his exposed appearance.

Slade broke eye contact first, rolling his head with a pop to his neck. "I like your fire, Robin, but I also find it to be severely misdirected." He looked to the wall where the bottle of lubricant had hit and fallen. "Fetch."

The ire of his gaze fizzled out to match the cold feeling in his gut. Robin dropped his head subserviently. "No," he said, though it was in every facet a plea.

"Yes," Slade reiterated.

To demonstrate nothing more than a display of defiance, Robin waited for as long as he thought he could get away with stalling before he shuffled to the edge of the bed and stood. He knew Slade was watching him greedily, and when he reached the bottle, he turned to face the man instead of bending over and putting himself on display. Then he slowly walked back to the bed.

"Sit with your back against the wall," Slade instructed. "That should make things easier."

Robin sat at the head of the bed and leaned against the cool brick. He held the bottle in his hand with his knees pressed firmly together.

"Have you ever done this before?" Slade asked of him. Robin answered him negatively with a slight blush and a shake of the head. "Good," the man said. "I'll talk you through it."

Robin took deep breaths through his nose, his hand tightening on the bottle it held. Slowly he popped open the lid and poured it into his hand. The contents went everywhere. "It's runny," he commented, watching as it ran down his arm and onto the plain white sheets.

"I don't care if you make a mess," came a remark from the end of the bed. Robin wanted to say they were in agreement about something, but his nerves at the moment had him biting his lip. Gradually he lowered the glistening fingers of his right hand between his legs, down, down, further down. He pressed in slightly and then Slade spoke with a condescending tone. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's start off slow." Robin pulled his finger back, his face feeling hot with embarrassment. "Stroke yourself."

Robin's hand trailed up, brushing his limp cock. He doubted he would get any sort of reaction from it, not with Slade watching him so intently, but he wrapped his fingers around it and began rubbing. From the few times he had touched himself, he could say without doubt that the assistance of the lubricant made things much easier. He might have to remember that for future reference.

Futilely he stroked and stroked, his hand jerking up and down with a determination that yielding nothing minute after minute. "I can't," he said at last, pulling his hand away. His cock fell back between his legs, dormant and resting against his balls.

"I didn't tell you to stop," Slade chided. Robin might have made a biting remark about chafing, but the man continued on before he got the chance. "But that's all right. You can move on to the next stage. I know how eager you are."

"I'm not," Robin argued, actually dreading the fact. He picked the bottle back up and drizzled more of the oily liquid on his fingers. Then he lowered his hand down his body and took one deep breath— deciding not to drag things out— and pushed his index finger in.

The breach wasn't painful in the slightest. His only complaint was the oddness of the sensation, knowing it at once to be something he didn't enjoy. He pushed his finger in to the last knuckle and left it there, just breathing and assessing himself. Slade, he noticed, had moved forward an almost unperceivable distance, an inch maybe, so as to get a better view. Robin was grateful for the long bed between them.

"How does it feel?" the man asked, as though the answer was a necessity for notes in an experiment.

"I hate it," Robin spat.

Slade tipped his head up a little to see better, and Robin blocked what he could with the rest of his hand. "Move," Slade ordered, and Robin reluctantly obeyed, folding his fingers back out of the way. "No, Robin, the one inside. Move it in and out."

Robin propped his other fingers against his leg for leverage and began pumping his index finger in and out at a slow pace. He endeavored greatly to keep his face as expressionless as possible and was happy for the assistance his mask provided in that. His breath was loud and audible as it puffed out of him through his nose, but he refused to open his mouth for a good gulp of air and give the man that image of him panting.

"Add another," Slade instructed after a few minutes, as though he knew that Robin had began to grow accustomed to the feeling of just one.

Robin pulled his finger out and placed his middle one next to it as tightly as he could. He hesitated only for a second before returning to his puckering hole. Slowly pressing in, he found two fingers to be a much more noticeable presence. If he was being honest, it burned a little, and getting past the first ring of muscle felt so tight he thought he might cut off circulation in his fingers. "Ah," he gasped, hating the small escape of sound. If not for the mask blocking Slade's face, Robin might have said the man was grinning.

"Keep moving," the man told him, and Robin was unaware he had even stopped.

He pushed in slow, breaching himself more fully. It felt like a small salvation when his palm cupped his ass and his fingers were all the way in. He stayed there, still and silent for a moment, adjusting.

"Move," Slade said eventually.

"Shut up," Robin hissed, waiting apprehensively for punishment to his disobedience. It didn't come though, so maybe Slade understood that he needed a minute.

"You're doing well," the other told him. The last thing Robin needed was a pep talk through this, but it did manage to get him moving his fingers again just so the man would stop talking.

It seemed to work. Slade was utterly silent as Robin began thrusting again. The sweet reprieve of absence was short lived as he pulled out his fingers, penetrating himself again immediately. The stinging lessened as he went, his hole learning its new limit of violation quickly.

When he felt emboldened, Robin began pulling his fingers apart upon exiting, stretching himself just a little more. The pain faded, and once more, the sensation became familiar.

"Another."

Robin stopped. He pulled his fingers out and propped himself up, looking more fully at the man. "I can barely get two in," he stated.

"I said," Slade repeated, "another."

Gently, Robin eased himself back down. He shuffled a little as he thought, wondering if there was some strategy to be devised in order to meet Slade's demand. It didn't take long to conclude that no, there wasn't, and that the best and only course of action would be to carry on as he had been.

Robin stuck his first two fingers back in easily. He opened them as wide as he dared, feeling a definite pull and resistance. It was obvious to tell when he had worked them far enough apart because he felt another foreign feeling set in. Cool air from the room blew between his fingers, chilling his warm insides like a cold winter breeze. That, he felt, was all the go ahead he needed to fit a third finger in.

He pulled out completely, and didn't like when that new tickle of air kept blowing inside, alerting him that maybe he wasn't closing back up quite so eagerly. He clenched his ass together, blocking out the exposure. Robin pinched his three middle fingers together as tightly as he could, laying the middle one atop the other two to make a bunched triangle shape. Then he pushed in.

"Ah," Robin uttered in surprise, feeling like he may have underestimated the girth of three digits. He turned his head to the side, pressing his face to the cool brick, and bit his lip before forcing himself in anyway.

Slade was nothing more than a distant memory as all Robin could focus on was the stretch of his ass and the tight hold it had on his fingers, as though he had wrapped a rubber band around them over and over again. He pushed through though. Given his past, there had always been worse pain. He kept telling himself that the only reason this one held any sway was because of its foreign touch.

After a small eternity, his palm touched skin again as his fingers reached their end. He held his hand there unmovingly, not even adjusting to stop the uncomfortable feeling of his wrist pressing down on his balls and cock.

"Well done," Slade congratulated him.

Robin really didn't want the flattery right then. He was more concerned with ignoring the pain in his ass and asking himself how long ago he had started sweating and panting lewdly with an open mouth.

His tongue stuck out and wet lips that tasted salty. His face felt flushed, his head dizzy. He thought he might have been having an out of body experience, except without the benefit of being able to leave the pain behind.

"Move your fingers, Robin."

If his middle finger hadn't been pressed so deep inside himself, Robin might have presented it to Slade right then. He was just going to have to wait though.

"You're stronger than you realize," Slade told him. "But if you require my assistance to learn that about yourself, remember this: my fingers are much wider."

Robin was mortified to hear himself whimper at the thought. "I don't need your help," he stated gruffly, trying to erase the vulnerable image he must have been presenting.

"This must be difficult for you," Slade observed, though not for the three fingered reason Robin was thinking. "Very difficult indeed to submit to me like this. I know how much you hate losing."

"You mean like you?" Robin ground out.

"Yes," the man answered honestly, "which is why I take such methodical pleasure from holding the upper hand in our current partnership."

Hesitantly, Robin began moving his fingers, pulling out and pushing in. One was bliss, the other a punishment. To keep himself from whimpering or making any sort of embarrassing grunt, he decided to continue talking instead, to keep his mouth occupied. "The word 'partnership,'" he panted, "implies equal power."

"Perhaps," Slade spoke, "in time." His words lacked their usual finesse, sounding halted and labored. Robin thought at first to be cocky, pleased by the idea of them being on equal grounds of breathlessness. Then, of course, he realized that Slade's shortness of breath, having no apparent cause with his idle sitting, must have been suggestively induced from merely watching. It made Robin feel slightly disgusted, knowing his little show was not for simple humiliation.

"How much longer?" he questioned shamefully, head down and fingers penetrating with a steadying rhythm.

Slade didn't answer him for a long while, letting the question hang with only the sound of Robin's wet, pumping fingers to fill the air. The silence dragged on for so long that he almost asked again, only to be beaten to speech by Slade.

"That will do," he said.

With a groaning sigh of relief, Robin drew his oily fingers out. His hand hit the bed hard, feeling a deep exhaustion that left him panting.

"Now turn around," Slade spoke, a command that Robin was far from ready for. He disobeyed the man, sitting still as he caught his breath. "Robin," he said calmly, "turn around. I want you on your hands and knees." Still Robin didn't move. "Must I resort to such a juvenile tactics of counting to three?" His wrist popped back, prompting the appearance of the horrid button. Slade rested his thumb gently atop it. "I don't need to kill them to hurt them. One…" He began counting.

Robin whined a little in his throat, pulling his tired body over until his face was planted in the pillow.

"On your knees, I said."

With no great degree of speed, Robin brought his knees together, raising his lower half up while keeping the rest of himself buried in the pillow. It was mortifying to present himself to Slade like that, but then— as he could guess with near certainty— that was the point.

Then he felt the shocking sensation of the bed moving. The mattress dipped and he felt his stomach drop with it. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Robin," the man taunted in reply, "to what end did you think all of that preparation would lead?"

With a swift twist, Robin turned and struck out his foot, landing a mighty kick in the other's chest. Slade grabbed his ankle though and pulled him down the bed, immediately enveloping Robin with his weight as he pressed down over him, cool metal and leather touching every inch of warm, clammy flesh.

Gentle fingers from a gloved hand began running through his hair, a touch that soon tightened and pulled when Robin refused to stop fighting. His head was yanked back, his neck exposed. "Do you really think," Slade questioned, "I'll let you back down? Don't you want all of your hard work to mean something?" His other hand trailed up Robin's small body until it reached his neck. A single finger pressed forward, feeling a frantic pulse.

"It doesn't mean anything but extorted power!" Robin continued writhing under the man until he eventually worked a hand free. He brought it up with the intent of delivering a punch, but Slade grabbed his wrist before he could even think to try. Robin pulled his other arm out, but it quickly shared the same fate. Then Slade pinned them both above his head, shoving them into the mattress.

"An interesting thing, my probes," he whispered, no ounce of sensuality lost in his voice. He leaned in close to Robin's ear and spoke as though conspiring, only the hard mask between them. "They respond to different frequencies based on range." He nuzzled Robin's neck, mask impeding slightly. "That's a nice way of saying that as long as your friends aren't all standing next to each other, I can select one, just one, to destroy. It's a good tactic, I think, a way to let you know I'm not bluffing while still having more leverage."

Robin brought his thrashing to a slow stop, reminded of the ever important reason for his submission. "I know you're not bluffing," he uttered dejectedly.

"I don't think you do," Slade argued, pulling away. "Who would you have me start with? Cyborg? Beast Boy? Raven?" He paused before insidiously suggesting, "Starfire?"

"No!" Robin yelled.

"Oh, it would seem I've struck a nerve," Slade boasted.

Robin dropped his chin to his chest, his eyes unfocussed past the edge of his mask as he shook his head. "Don't hurt any of them."

Slade sat up, releasing Robin's hands and removing himself from atop the boy completely. "Show me the intensity of your resolve," he challenged.

No longer allowing himself the luxury of stubbornness, Robin wasted no time in turning back over. He dug his knees into the bed and pushed up on his crossed arms just enough to keep his face from sinking into the bedding.

"Good boy," Slade praised, but the endearment was a tainted thing and an ill reward. He reached over Robin's shoulder and grabbed the bottle of oil that had been left there.

A lifeless gloved hand rested on the muscled swell of his ass, the thumb running along his cleft as if with contemplation. "You're quite small, aren't you?" Slade observed, though Robin didn't rise to whatever challenge was intended from the supposed offense. "So small, so young, yet also so brave and strong." The feather light touch of Slade's other hand ran down his spine, a soothing caress that ghosted over every hill of bone and muscle. "What an exquisite contradiction you are, Robin."

"Can we skip the pillow talk?" Robin finally snapped.

"As you wish."

The bottle's lid being opened popped through the quiet room like thunder. Robin dreaded his impending fate, only to be surprised when one single finger met his newly stretched entrance. There was a brief moment of pause, as though Slade was almost waiting for preparedness and a word of permission, before he pushed the leather clad digit inside.

If Robin thought his own finger had felt odd, the groping sensation of another person's was horribly unnatural. There was no pain as, even with Slade's wider set hands, he had prepared himself well enough to easily take one. But that didn't mean he enjoyed the probing finger, twisting and clawing as though in a search.

"What are you doing?" he growled. "Just get on with it."

"Patience, my eager apprentice," Slade remarked casually. "This part is all for you." Robin wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, only knew that he definitely wasn't relishing in the feel of it. "To be so capable, Robin, you seem to have a hard time finding things on your own. Are you ready?"

Before Robin could answer positively or negatively or just with a simple request for clarification, Slade's finger dragged down purposefully.

The violating touch massaged with a gentle press, curling and uncurling against something bizarre and wholly inexplicable. Robin couldn't hold back the small bark of surprise he felt over the wave of unlooked for, unwanted thrill that lit through him. He hated it.

"No," came his beseeching groan. But Slade only shushed him, cooing in his ear with a sound that was mostly condescension and self-gratification, no real comfort imbedded to be heard.

Slade gifted him with a pleasure he had every want and right to refuse. It was forced on him though, caressed into his body.

It became quickly apparent that the man was working in him with an intent, and after a few minutes of ceaseless stimulation, Robin discovered why. His small, soft cock began to rise unbidden between his legs, bobbing up and growing as though pulled to life by a pitiless puppet master.

When Slade reached down and grasped him with his free hand, it was almost too much for Robin to take. "Do you like it?" the man asked with velvet tongue. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"N-no," Robin answered earnestly. He shook his head, hair damp with sweat, vehemently against the soft white sheets.

Not that he honestly expected any fairness at that point, but Robin was still sorely disappointed when his answer did not bring an end to the torment. Slade continued to stroke him with the one finger, pumping his traitorously half-hard cock with the oiled grip of his other hand.

"Slade, stop," he implored, voice sounding rough.

Hands unceasing in their pace, Slade said, "It would seem you've already forgotten our discussion from earlier on how you should address me."

He continued to press gently at the spot inside of him, and Robin bit his lip, distressed by the idea that he might actually come from the unending assault.

"Master!" he exclaimed, quickly rectifying his mistake. "Master, stop… please."

In respect for Robin's obedience, Slade slowly ended his exploitation, like a machine powering down. He took his finger from between Robin's hole almost immediately, but continued pumping his cock for several more strokes, as though wanting nothing more than for the boy to come.

It did eventually end too though, and Robin wanted to fall to the bed with relief. He felt exhausted but alive, as though he had been electrocuted and needed to recover. His body drooped a little, knees pulling apart as his legs spread wide and lowered him mercifully down.

The rest was short-lived though as Slade remembered he existed. The man placed a hand on either side of his narrow hips, pulling him up off the bed and knocking Robin's knees back underneath himself. "We're not quite done yet," he stated. Robin feared they never would be.

One of the strong, gloved hands left his hip. The other ghosted lower, pulling his ass apart as something bigger and imposing and definitely not a finger pressed in beside. "You've done well so far," Slade commended, voice soft, almost affectionate. "Time for your final test of the night."

He pressed forward, guiding himself with his hand, feeding his cock into Robin's ass bit by bit until the head was embedded. The teen shook his head violently at the intrusion, cursing and pulling away.

A fingertip was pressed humbly against his lips. "Here," Slade offered. He pushed his finger in, meeting clenched teeth. "Bite the bullet, as it were."

Robin opened his mouth, anxious to viciously bite Slade for so many reasons. Instead of just the one finger though, all four were thrust in, and once inside, he couldn't spit them out. They took up entitled residence in his mouth, forcing open his jaw. Robin bit down angrily for all he was worth. Slade, however, seemed to take that as the signal to push further in.

A muffled yell sounded around Slade's fingers, vibrations trembling through the digits. He pulled his oiled cock out a little, then pressed in again, deeper that time. Robin released another involuntary yelp at the pain.

Three fingers had been agonizing, but he recognized them now as the necessary preparation. Robin felt stretched and filled, pressed to the very edge of his limits. He found the strength in his jaw to bite down harder, needing the focus as Slade pulled back just once more before burying in deep.

Robin felt skin press against his own, cooler than he was, not so fevered with inflicted strain. Slade folded over him slightly, open shirt curtaining his smaller frame.

He paused, catching his breath and gasping some mocking word of praise about how exquisite the boy felt. But Robin barely registered the double-edged flattery.

When he moved again, it was the beginning of a rotating cycle, an intruding force that built up speed as it went. Robin gripped the sheets and bit Slade's fingers roughly as his smaller body was taken along for the ride, pressing forward with a thrust, falling back when it had gone.

After a moment, spit began dribbling down the fingers in his mouth, down his chin in a lewd display. Robin eased up on his bite and pushed against the fingers with his tongue, signaling he wanted them out.

Slade obliged quickly enough, and when he was rid of them, Robin's jaw felt sore, utterly used. He dug his head into the sheets, wiping away the trails of saliva on his face.

"Ah," he groaned, taken by surprise as Slade thrust in a little harder. It seemed with the fingers out, there was nothing to muffle his slight whimpers at the intensity of each push. Again he moaned, "Ah," unable to stop himself, surprised by every shove, though he knew of its imminence. "Ah."

"Robin," Slade observed, speaking as though politely informing him, "you're so vocal."

The comment made Robin bite his lip to keep quiet, but that seemed to be far from what Slade wanted. "Don't stop now," he said. "I was rather enjoying the sounds you make." Robin continued to keep quiet, teeth clenching tightly around his lip as only little muted moans escaped. A hand abruptly grabbed his hair, pulling his head back at an unpleasant angle. "I said don't stop."

Slade pushed in deliberately hard and fast, slamming his firm hips against Robin's ass. "Ah," Robin uttered without intent, lip dropping from his mouth.

"That's my boy," Slade applauded.

He kept that pace, delighting in little noises the boy wonder would make. The room filled with the vicious sound of flesh slapping against flesh and the little yelp that would follow.

After a moment, Robin heard something thump down on the bed beside him. A quick glance told him it was Slade's mask. On impulsive curiosity, he tried to look behind himself, only to have a cruel hand push his face harshly into the sheets, pressing down until he felt he could barely breathe.

"Ah-ah," Slade tutted. "Respect for anonymity is a two-way street, Robin."

When he seemed content that the boy wouldn't try looking again, he eased up on his hold. Robin pulled up quickly, inhaling a deep breath and barely taking notice of the tender caress through his hair, the carrot after the stick.

"Does it feel good?" Slade asked, slowing his thrusts in anticipation of the other's answer.

Robin shook his head, rolling it in the sheets. "Uh-uh," he uttered, breaking off with a grunt.

"Tell me it does," Slade ordered, his hand still tenderly petting the dark hair below him.

"No," Robin said simply.

Slade's hand dropped away from his head, thrusting in front of Robin's face and proudly displaying the button that stood between his friends and death.

Robin made a grab for the control, but Slade, obviously anticipating his action, punched him in the back of the head. He then pushed the button, angling Robin's face so he could see.

"There's a ten second delay," he told the boy, "and I can stop it. Tell me." Robin remained quiet. "Six… seven…"

"It feels so good, Master."

Slade pushed the button again, deactivating the signal. "Go on," he instructed.

"I don't— ah!" Robin shook his head, breathing through the raw feeling in his ass as Slade began picking up his pace again. "I don't know what to say."

"Be creative."

"You feel so good," Robin exclaimed. He tried to think of what to say, but it was hard as he didn't want to say the words or even think about them as they left his mouth. "Your…"

"My what?" Slade insisted. "Say it."

"Your… Ah, your cock feels… good." He hummed in his throat as Slade changed the angle of his assault, pressing against the spot he had so deviously manipulated Robin with before. He was sure it was supposed to be a reward, but it felt like a punishment. Robin was much more content to forsake all pleasure and let his once again soft cock continue to sway limply between his bent legs with each rotation. "Don't," he pled, hating that he had to.

"Don't what, Robin?"

"Don't pleasure me, Master," he insisted, feeling the words drip with horrifying obedience from his lips. "Go harder."

Robin could almost feel the smirk on Slade's lips. He could definite hear the little chuckle of conquest as the man leaned down by his ear. His face was so close, but Robin dared not look, not even when teeth wrapped around his shoulder, sinking possessively into his flesh and making him yell from the unexpected surprise of it.

Slade picked up his pace again, slamming his cock into Robin in an almost desperate way that reeked of control and chaos. The depth of his penetration was lessened with the new angle, but he still managed to do plenty of damage, pulling on Robin's raw hole as he worked through the last of his thrusts.

The man's release was quick, pumping inside of Robin, but the warmth felt muted and contained. Robin thought he must have used a condom, and for that he was grateful.

Slade stayed as he was for a full minute longer, softening cock spasming in Robin's ass, his teeth readjusting their hold.

Then he released the teen from his torture. He pulled out his cock first. Robin almost felt like he could breathe a sigh of relief at being empty again, even with the sickening feel of cool air on the walls and red rim of his slightly gaping insides. When Slade dropped his shoulder from his mouth, he laved over the area with his tongue, licking errant spit that had dripped away, cleaning his apprentice. Then he kissed the mark he had left, soundlessly and without affection.

He pulled away and Robin fell heavily into the mattress, feeling as though the weight of a lifetime of troubles had descended and left, only the ghost of their burden remaining in their wake.

Robin didn't bother trying to turn over, to catch Slade with his mask off. He knew the return of that curtain, his shield of anonymity, would be the first thing secured back in place, taking preference over even clothing.

In fact, Robin permitted himself the rare luxury of not endeavoring towards any one goal or action. He laid there, and in that allowance to himself, he found some semblance of relief.

He felt thoroughly used, sore, and exhausted in a way he wasn't sure he ever had before.

Slade returned to the bed after what felt like seconds, but must surely have been at least a couple of minutes. He was fully clothed but for his small sheets of armor. Putting a hand on Robin, he rolled the boy over, drawing him into a half hold.

"Get away!" Robin yelled, beating at his chest and trying to jump away from him.

The man grabbed his arm though, hard and bruising, no chance of release or escape. He pulled Robin close to him again, constricting his movements and holding him against his chest. "You did well," he praised, almost sounding sincere. Though for all Robin knew, perhaps he was. The teen then felt the cool relief of a damp cloth wiping the sweat from his brow, dripping water into his hair. "Your best lesson yet." The cloth dipped lower, over his still heaving chest, and he allowed it for the cleansed feel it left. "My doubt over the lengths you will go to in your loyalty to me has diminished substantially," Slade continued talking— a droll lecture that Robin wished he could turn off— as he wiped over the boy's arms.

Robin didn't appreciate whatever foreboding threat that might have carried with it, what horrors were in wait for him or how many might be in a bedroom.

Slade's hand drifted down his stomach. The damp cloth wrapped around his cock, feeling raw despite its minimal participation during the entire affair. He tried to push Slade away, remove the hand from him, but the man only gave his sensitive little cock a sharp squeeze in warning.

When he had finished cleaning the traces of oil off, Slade let Robin drop back down onto the bed. "You are so small," he said, as though he had forgotten, only to realize it again. He situated himself at Robin's feet and turned the boy over.

"Get off," Robin yelled, trying to kick Slade and return to lying on his back at the same time.

Slade easily grabbed Robin by an ankle and pinned him, pressing down until the boy's foot almost met his back. "Your stubbornness is a quality I greatly admire, Robin, however in this instance it is only detrimental to my helping you."

"I don't need your help," Robin grunted, trying to break free.

He stayed restrained though, unable to do much of anything as Slade ran the cloth along his ass, dipping slightly in and around his raw, aching hole.

"Are you done?" the teen growled.

"Almost," he answered. Robin felt a chilled sensation in his ass, a cool balm that sent shivers all the way up his arms. "This should help numb the pain," Slade said, rubbing all around his stretched flesh, anywhere that looked like it might have suffered. The effect was instantaneous, and with the feeling of relief it brought, Robin relaxed, slumping into the bedding. Slade released his leg, sensing the loss of fight in him. "Very good," he commended.

When he was sure Robin's discomfort had been thoroughly seen to— or perhaps when he had gotten his fill of the sight of him— Slade withdrew and left the bed once more. "You were very obedient tonight, Robin." He leaned down and petted the boy's hair soothingly. Robin didn't care enough to fight it. "As a reward," he said, "I'll let you have the day off tomorrow so you can recover." He pulled his hand away and stood to his full height. "I'll need you in top form for future training."

Slade dragged a sheet over the boy, shielding him from the cool air. Then he walked to the door, standing in the glow outside as he turned off the light of the room.

"Good night, Robin." He waited, as though expecting a response. "A courteous boy would reply in kind."

"Too bad," Robin bit back.

"You should know by now that isn't how this works."

Robin growled low in his throat before forcing himself to utter, "Good night, Master."

"Good boy," Slade stated. Then he shut the door, leaving Robin in complete darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Robin is such a tight-ass in the show. I figured why not literally? Also, I’ve heard all the little grunts he makes in a fight. You can’t tell me that boy wouldn’t be vocal in bed.
> 
> I’m glad I stopped before I got too carried away. Like... having Slade make him go on a mission with a plug in or something. Damn, I’m cruel. But damn that also sounds really good... Mmm, blowjob training…


End file.
